Dethroning the King
by TheDramaQueer
Summary: The higher they are... The harder they fall.


Minho stared hard into the light gray eyes of the new Green Bean, some sorry shank who had only just arrived a few days ago and looked like he'd never amount to much more than one of Gally's tag along Builder goonies. The kid would be perfect for the position, all muscle and cocky swagger yet lacking a single brain cell that the Keeper of the Runners could detect.

The self assured idiot - Minho hadn't really bothered to catch his name, the piece of knowledge entirely uninteresting and equally unimportant - had been over ambitious and too eager to prove his obvious superiority in anyway he could. (Which was, in Minho's guess, no way whatsoever.) The cocksure shucker had been throwing challenges and snide remarks out as if they were two cent candies all night long and the Keeper had just been waiting for the moment he could finally shut this prick up without Alby jumping the Asian's shit for punching out the Greenie's nasty, yellowing teeth.

Patience had admittedly never been one of Minho's many virtues (Nor had humility, but at least he wasn't being a shank about it like the walking asshole over here) but he refrained from throwing any punches as per the Glade Dad's request for many an insufferable hour, gritting his teeth while the new Green Bean droned on and on about how he could take anyone in the Glade easily. It was practically unbearable and Minho had seriously considered if a night in The Pit was really that bad if it meant he got to wipe that shiteatting grin off Boy Wonder's hideous face but eventually the payoff finally came…

Now the literal embodiment of arrogance strained fruitlessly in a battle of "Brains and Brawn, but Mostly Brawn," as the Keeper had nicknamed it, and it was a losing battle.

The kid broke eye contact by clenching his own orbs shut tightly, his already less than gorgeous face becoming even more ugly than it already was as it twisted and morphed with strain, becoming red and blotted with the pure effort of the fight. The dude grunted and groaned as if he were giving birth to obese triplets, practically roaring as Minho began to get bored of the game and added a little bit more pressure to his attack.

Minho narrowed his dark eyes and a slight smirk began tugging at his lips, curling them upwards into a snide smile. The Runner always did reap a sorta grim pleasure at having his opponent conquered and the way the future Builder's veins bulged with strain to the point that Minho was almost concerned they'd burst (Who was he kidding? He not in the least bit concerned.) let the Asian know victory was already surely in his grasp.

Finally, having toyed with his victim long enough, Minho slammed the other guy's hand down on the makeshift table as if it were the easiest thing in the world, never once breaking a sweat as the defeated Greenie practically collapsed on the spot, swearing and gulping in huge breaths of air as if he'd just outrun a Griever.

"Don't beat yourself up, Greenie." Newt comforted the exhausted newbie, emerging from the crowd of gathered onlookers to pat the loser on the shoulder. "No one's ever beat Minho." The second in command reassured the kid who could do naught but gasp like a fish out of water and follow the blond numbly back into the crowd, looking uncomforted by Newt's words but effectively tamed for the time being.

Minho leaned back in his chair, keeping his face carefully void of the victorious smirk it so badly wanted to twist into, opting to just let the corners of his lips upturn in a coy smile of victory as he crossed his muscled, champion holding arms over his chest.

Nightly armwrestling competitions had become a sorta tradition there in the Glade. The lighthearted activity offered a way to relieve tension, solve conflict, and, most importantly, granted a brief escape from the dismal routine of daily life - All in all, the testosterone driven games were probably all that stood between the Gladers and insanity.

The competitions were fun, yes, but highly competitive. They were still a bunch of boys, no matter what conditions they lived under, and thus they needed some way to assert power without laying each other out every other day - So it should really be no surprise that Minho had long held the title of reigning champion.

"Anyone else up to take on the undefeated Keeper of the Runners?" Alby hollered excitedly, cupping his large hands around his mouth to give his deep voice an echoey tone suiting for his self-proclaimed announcer duties.

Unsurprisingly, no one stepped up to take the bait. Nobody who knew better even bothered to challenge Minho, you'd only have to be in the Glade a few nights, watching opponent after opponent crumble before the Keeper to figure that one out. It didn't take a genius to understand Minho was the king of the game, and no one usurped a ruler who commanded with such an iron fist (Literally.)

Which is why every single person in the courtyard fell dead silent when a single voice, casual but confident, spoke up and said. "Sure, I'll give it a try."

Minho felt his cool facade slip momentarily at the declaration, not expecting anymore foolish opposition this evening and most certainly not from the person with that familiar, gravelly, yet still somehow smooth, voice. The Keeper recovered from the brief moment of shock as quickly as it had come, though he did let his lips curl upwards a little more than before as he raised his dark eyes to gaze upon his challenger.

Thomas emerged from the crowd with an easy gait, his thumbs hooked on his belt loops and a slight smile plastered across his face, as if he were not strolling into a face off with the notorious Bone Breaking King of Armwrestling. The teen pulled out the chair opposite Minho and plopped into it haphazardly, resting an arm casually against the playing table with hazel eyes locked on his competitor, the orbs brimming with humor and interest rather than the cold stare of challenge the champion had become so accustomed to glaring into during a game.

"I won't go easy on you, shank." Minho warned his Runner with just a bit of a teasing edge as the brunette lifted his arm and spread his fingers out in invitation.

And then Thomas gave him that look. That look he only gave Minho. The one where he narrowed his blazing hazel orbs slightly and drew just the corner of one side of his pink lips upward in the beginnings of a smirk. "It wouldn't be any fun if you did." The brunette replied in a low voice, tone dropping to almost a whisper as he leaned forward slightly in his seat so that only his opponent could hear.

Minho definitely did not choke on his own spit because he was a cool champion and cool champions did not do such things. The Keeper did however waste no time in propping his arm up on its elbow and clasping hands with the boy across from him, locking their digits together in a steely grip and stubbornly ignoring the fact that his fighting hand was usually not this sweaty when he was getting ready to beat down another foolish challenger.

"On go." Alby declared commandingly as he came to stand beside the table, though the leader looked more excited for this one match than Minho had ever seen him about anything before - Not even Frypan's famous Taco Tuesdays

Minho tried to think about that odd fact rather than how warm his Runner's hand felt clasped tightly in his own all while definitely not reaping a guilty pleasure from any of this.

"Three!" Alby began the countdown, raising his arm high in the air for all to see.

Minho knew Thomas well, probably better than he knew anyone else after running through the endless stone corridors of the Maze with the boy by his side for countless hours and he knew the teen wasn't stupid. The sly brunette had to be planning something - But what?

"Two" Alby called, his voice rising in pitch as excitement flooded his deep tones.

Minho narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the Runner across from him, trying to read his friend, pick up some hint in his actions but all Thomas did was lean forward and smile at the older boy.

"One..." Alby whispered, his voice suddenly dropping as tension came to smother the Glade in its suffocating grip. The entire courtyard seemed to hold its breath in anticipation, like all the nightly matches they'd ever had were always leading down to this single moment

"Go!" Alby screamed frantically, drawing that one fateful word out endlessly as he slammed his arm downwards in the signal to begin but Minho barely heard him and most certainly did not slam Thomas's arm instantly on the table as he'd intended to.

Because Thomas surged forward suddenly as that one single syllable hung in the air, echoing endlessly as Minho's world came to a dead halt. Thomas closed the distance between them. Thomas kissed him.

Warm lips brushed lightly against Minho's, soft and chaste, as if waiting for permission yet still so there. The Asian was frozen, his heart pounding like a bass drum in his chest as his sluggish brain struggled to catch up to reality enough for him to respond - No, to reciprocate.

The overwhelming urge to slam his lips forcefully back into the tentative ones of his companion bubbled up inside Minho like someone poured gasoline on a wildfire and the fact that his companion began moving his soft lips against Minho's own as if encouraging a reaction was only adding fuel to the blaze.

Except, the dull thump of his own arm colliding with the wood of the playing table echoed in Minho's empty head and Thomas finally pulled away, a light smile tugging at those sinful lips as he began to lean back into his seat.

"I win." The cunning Runner whispered, barely audible over the Gladers now exploding with emotion in the background: Excitement at the unexpected play, outrage at the audacity of it, but mostly just shock that the undefeated champion had at long last been overthrown.

But Minho grabbed the other boy by the collar of the shirt and pulled the brunette back to him, ignoring the obnoxious reactions from their friends and companions as he forcefully slammed his own lips into the other male's. Game or no game, Minho had wanted to kiss Thomas back and that's damn well what he was going to do - Being champion was about the last thing on the Asian's mind right now, far down the list of priorities somewhere after getting his lips on his Thomas's again.

The Keeper felt his Runner smile against him before letting his pink lips fall open to allow Minho to claim his prize… So who was really winning here?


End file.
